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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451931">Cyrus: Kalsav Forest</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashdrabbles/pseuds/ashdrabbles'>ashdrabbles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons &amp; Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Animal Death, Blood and Violence, Flashbacks, General Angst, and he's trying to live with it, but it sucks, he knows he's a bad person, he made a deal with a demon okay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:40:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,660</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashdrabbles/pseuds/ashdrabbles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A dozen lies flooded to his tongue, but he uncharacteristically faltered. “Max, you take mine. I’m not — not hungry.” </p><p>Consolantia followed his gaze to the deer carcass and scoffed. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Just hold my dirt, you’ll be fine.” </p><p>She tossed the tiny pouch into his lap and he frowned. She thought he was simply squeamish over a skinned deer? He would’ve been insulted, if he didn’t prefer it to the truth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cyrus: Kalsav Forest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This forest had been tainted by something vile.</p><p>Cyrus couldn’t shake the feeling that there was somebody,<em> something</em>, prowling just beyond the fog, watching them from afar. Strange magic oozed in the air, thick as sludge and just as foul. The birds and the animals lay silent, the air deadened and eerie. Scrawling trees blocked out the sky with branches like long crooked hands clawing out in anguish.</p><p>Suddenly, the rustle of leaves. He looked up in time to see a deer bounding out of the brush, running away from something — no,<em> towards </em>something. Its eyes were wild with hate, legs pumping as it charged forward, its chest heaving with effort, barreling straight into them—</p><p>Straight into them! Cyrus jolted to attention, but Foddom was quicker. An arrow shot out of the air and lodged itself cleanly in the deer’s throat. Mid-stride, the animal collapsed, tumbled lifelessly into the dirt, and lay still. Just like that, the threat was vanquished. The dwarf let loose a whistle as he lowered his crossbow, and then laughed. “Well! This forest may be mighty creepy, but, eh, at least it makes for easy hunting!” With a hearty grunt, he slung the weapon over his shoulder and stepped forward to investigate.</p><p>Cyrus, watching from afar, frowned at the deer. How odd — what could have possessed it to act so strangely? He stepped closer, finding himself gripped by a morbid curiosity, drawn to its glassy, marble eyes. As he leaned in to the deer, its deadened eyes suddenly snapped back to life, seizing his gaze and holding him hostage with their intensity. Frightened, maddened,<em> accusatory</em>. As if this was <em> his </em> fault. As if <em>he</em> was the one who caused its curse. As if <em> he </em>was the one who killed it. And with a start, Cyrus realized that he was no longer staring at the crazed deer, but at something much, much different:</p><p>The goat from Lamenhal.</p><p>Ice cold fear gripped his chest, only to be interrupted when the dwarf lumbered over to collect the carcass of what was - and had always been - the deer. The memory was gone as quickly as it had come, but it had left its mark. The prince was unsettled.</p><p>The forest must be playing tricks on him.</p><p>They set up camp and settled in for the evening. The party's chatter briefly cut the stale air and replaced it with mirth. Oh, it was kind of Amelié to help gather supplies for the camp, and it felt nice to rest their feet after a long day of hiking, and surely Foddom knew that Baelor was an excellent cook. The talk was soothing, and the fire warmed Cyrus’ weary muscles. It was almost enough to distract him from his thoughts. Almost.</p><p>The dwarf heaved the deer's body onto the ground and brandished a hunter's knife to skin it. Cyrus only caught a glimpse, but it was enough — enough to mistake that knife for his own, and for him to <em> remember</em>.</p><p>Instead of the dwarf’s stocky hands, he saw his own pale fingers gripping his knife. The goat squealed and thrashed beneath him, but could do little to escape the knife that sliced open its throat. The goat uttered a pathetic bleat, pleading for mercy, but the cruel hands paid it no mind. They sapped its blood and cast it aside to finish the ritual, only returning once the preparations were complete. Only then, as if the creature's suffering was an afterthought, did the knife finally end its life. The panic ceased. The goat’s maddened eyes faded away into dull glassy marbles, and the prince wiped his bloodied hands unceremoniously on its unsullied fur.</p><p>Cyrus felt the color drain from his face. He knew where this was going.<em> Stop,</em> he silently pleaded to the image of himself, to the dwarf who whistled while he worked. <em> No more of this. </em></p><p>But his pleas went unanswered. Foddom continued as if he had done it a million times; slicing the meat, skewering it on a branch, balancing it over the fire. Cyrus was powerless to do anything but endure as the campsite melted away and the memories overtook him.</p><p>The smell of roasting flesh choked his nostrils — no longer deer, but human — and the forest was suddenly thick with smoke. Fire roared in his ears as the trees burned red-hot. He caught glimpses of the prisoners, stumbling and shouting into the smoke — <em>No! You freak! You monster! Get away!— </em>but their words quickly scrawled away into cries of agony as the demon’s sword split them open. As the flames licked at their limbs.</p><p>He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block it out, but the vision smothered all else. It frightened him, stripped his composure, leaving him reeling in a rare moment of panic. Disgust. Horror. He killed innocent people. <em> He murdered them</em>. But he had to! Two dozen lives in exchange for thousands — it was the only choice! He took no joy in this. He took no joy in their deaths...</p><p>But was that really the truth?</p><p>Of course it was. He had no choice. If he hadn’t acted, then Nobea would have won—</p><p>Maybe so, maybe not. It didn't matter now, did it? What mattered was his willingness. He didn't even hesitate. He took the goat’s life without a second thought, just like he took the lives of those people.</p><p>No — of course he didn’t hesitate, why would he? He was a prince. A ruler. He'd always known he would have to make decisions like this—</p><p>—but it was so <em>thrilling, </em>wasn’t it? To hold so much power over something else.</p><p>The thought caught him off-guard. He was not quick enough to stop it. Not quick enough to deny it. All at once, he remembered the <em> rush </em> he felt when the first prisoner fell at his feet, just like the rush he felt when he was Naivara. He remembered feeling so <em> powerful </em>as he lorded over the helpless lot of them, savoring the terror in their eyes, holding their lives in his hands. He needed only to will them dead and the sword would oblige, spilling their innards on the stone floor.</p><p>It was a sick fascination. Similar to how he felt when he first read the journal. A feeling caught between repulsion and a twisted, morbid lust—</p><p><em>No.</em> Cyrus felt his stomach lurch, and it took every ounce of his will to swallow his disgust. He would not stoop to <em>that.</em> He was Cyrus Durathon, Prince of Dawnguard, successor to the King, sworn by blood to protect the realm. He’d spent his whole life clawing his way up to his rightful place, and he would not have himself be undone by this—this—this <em> bloodlust. </em></p><p>He forced himself back into the present — forced himself to feel the dirt beneath his legs, the foul stench of the forest’s magic, the warmth swelling around the campfire, the weary conversations as his party was relaxing for the evening. His eyes shot open and suddenly he was <em> there, </em> sitting in the miserable swamp, surrounded by quiet, unburnt trees. He stared down at his gloved hands, feeling the terrible thoughts receding at last. He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he'd been holding.</p><p>Free. He was free.</p><p>In truth, this was not the first time the prince had such thoughts — of gruesome, dark fantasies — but he had always swatted them away with ease. This was the first time they had consumed him so wholly, and it was jarring. Especially for someone like Cyrus, who held great pride in his ability to keep his composure even in the most dire circumstances. Something in him had changed.</p><p>He didn’t have much time to ponder it. Foddom’s deep voice interrupted his thoughts, bellowing that their meal was ready, and he needed everyone to portion out their meat. One by one, his siblings huddled in and chirped out their preferences until it quickly became Cyrus’ turn. He hesitated, not quite ready for the attention, not quite finished fighting nausea.</p><p>He cleared his throat and folded his hands together, trying to hide the way they shook. A dozen lies flooded to his tongue, but he uncharacteristically faltered. “Max, you take mine. I’m not — not hungry.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>But it was brief. Consolantia followed his gaze to the deer carcass and scoffed. “Oh, come on. it’s not that bad. Just hold my dirt and you’ll be fine.” She tossed the tiny pouch into his lap and he frowned. She thought he was simply squeamish over a skinned deer? He would’ve been insulted, if he didn’t prefer it to the truth.</p><p>He glanced away and, instead, found Ryli’s cold, unyielding stare. As they caught sight of each other, he immediately understood that she had noticed his error. She <em>knew</em> something was off. Her distrust was palpable as she stared at him intensely. Regarding him as if he was an unpredictable <em>dog,</em> and she, its keeper, was burdened with the decision of whether or not she needed to put him down.</p><p>Anger flicked through him, and he turned his head elsewhere. He shouldn’t have trusted her with his secret. It was foolish.</p><p>Trusting any of his family was foolish.</p><p>The realization left a dull ache of loneliness in his chest, and he immediately chided himself for it. Idiot. He knew it was going to be this way from the start — he knew they could never understand — but he couldn't help himself. He had <em>hoped.</em> Instead they mocked him. They shunned him. They kept him at an arm’s length for fear of what his foolish judgement would do next.</p><p><em> Well, </em> Cyrus thought bitterly to himself, <em> look at what just happened.</em> He supposed he couldn’t blame them.</p><p>So be it. He didn’t need their approval. It didn’t matter what the rest of the world thought of him. He just needed them to stand aside and let him work. Like Owlyss said, this was something he'd have to face alone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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